September 25, 2014 - 7:39 AM
I do not understand why people keep small dogs. Big dogs are useful for pulling sleds, guarding junk yards, or extending the manhood of people who live in trailer parks and wear their hats backwards. But small dogs are utterly pointless. And revolting.
I speak from experience. Recently a friend asked me to look after his small dog while he went away for a few days. Stupidly, I agreed.
When he brought it over, my friend gave me some food for it and a leash with a container of plastic bags attached.
“What are those for?” I asked.
“For when she poops,” he said.
“She does it in a bag?”
“No, you have to pick it up.”
Apparently this is one of those New Rules, like not being allowed to smoke or eat sugar. As shocking as this news was, it was too late to hand the bloody thing back.
A few minutes after its owner left, it started scratching at the door. I assumed this meant it needed toileting, which involved taking it for a walk. But it was raining, and I had no desire to handle its feces, so I picked it up and put it in the cat’s litter box, whereupon it ate all the cat poo. This did at least save me a job (I wasn’t going to eat it myself you understand, just dispose of it) but it was a disturbing thing to watch.
Eventually I consented to take it out in the rain. We had gone half way round the block when it squatted and deposited what was, for the size of dog, a surprisingly large turd, right in the middle of the sidewalk. I was about to do the only sensible thing under the circumstances and kick the offending pile onto the adjoining lawn, when I spotted a large, unfriendly-looking person spying on me from behind the lace curtains. The wretched dog appeared to have no interest in eating its own feculence, so I bowed to the inevitable and wrapped my hand in a bag.
I shall spare you the details of what I had to do next. Let me just say that no amount of mental preparation, and no thickness of plastic bag, can diminish the awfulness of having to gather up a soft, warm heap of steaming excreta with one’s hand.
The problem now became where to dispose of the bag and its fetid contents. There being no pick-up trucks or other waste receptacles in the vicinity, I was forced to parade it at arms length through the streets, displaying to passers-by how subservient I was to this disgusting little creature that I would traipse around behind it gathering its droppings.
After three days with it I can honestly say that, other than as a mobile dung factory, the thing served no purpose whatsoever. When not yapping or crapping it spent the entire time sleeping. On my lap mostly. Not that I miss it. Not a bit. Horrid little dog.
— The Grumpy Old Git has a problem with everything and doesn't mind telling you about it every Thursday.
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